


Three Acts at the Theatre

by aurora_australis



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Light Angst, Lovers to Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29919867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/pseuds/aurora_australis
Summary: They’ve known each other a long time, Jack and Rosie. Half a lifetime by now. And, over the years, they have attended the theatre many, many times.These are three of them.
Relationships: Jack Robinson/Rosie Sanderson, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 68





	Three Acts at the Theatre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arlome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my (writing) partner in (writing) crime, the brilliant and talented Arlome! You're a treasure and trooper, my darling, and we're so lucky you joined this fandom. Please enjoy a little bespoke Jack/Rosie on your special day, which I hope is as wonderful as you. 😘 
> 
> Many thanks to Becs for the excellent beta read!

**ACT ONE: 1913**

“Happy Birthday!”

Jack pulled his hands from Rosie’s eyes and took a step back, hoping she would enjoy her surprise — he’d put a lot of work into keeping it a secret, even blindfolding her for most of the hansom cab ride over, despite the odd stares from the driver.

From her delighted gasp, he’d succeeded.

“Oh, Jack!” Rosie turned around slowly, taking in the grand lobby of The Princess Theatre. Once she had seen it all, she moved to face him, her expression a mix of concern and excitement. “Did you sneak us in?” she asked, voice lowered.

Jack clapped his hand to his chest in a gesture of exaggerated offence.

“Of course not,” he huffed. “I’m an officer of the law.” Then he winked and she narrowed her eyes, still unconvinced.

“Well, I’ve no idea how you afforded tickets then, Senior Constable Robinson.”

“A man must be allowed his secrets, Miss Sanderson.”

In reality there was no great mystery — Jack had saved up for months for the tickets and the accompanying surprise.

But it was more fun this way.

She gave him a final suspicious glare, then clearly decided that however they’d gotten in, she was going to enjoy herself. She grinned and kissed him on the cheek.

Definitely a success.

“Well thank you, Jack. Though, I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble. We could have always asked Father for the tickets.”

“Uh, no thank you.”

“Fine, fine.” She let the matter drop and craned her neck to look for an usher. “So what are we seeing?” she asked.

“ _Seven Days_ ,” he told her.

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard wonderful things about it!” she exclaimed. “And it’s based on that novel… oh, what was it called again?”

“Uh, _When a Man Marries_ ,” Jack coughed. “I believe.”

“Right, yes,” she agreed, taking no special note of the name. “You know it was incredibly popular in America.”

“I do. And I also know how you love a farce.”

“I do,” she repeated. “In fact, I love a good many things, Jack Robinson.” Rosie’s smile as she said his name — open and lovely and _delighted_ — convinced Jack on the spot that every single extra shift he’d pulled to afford the night had absolutely been worth it. Then she glanced around until she spotted one of The Princess's many little lobby alcoves, and her smile turned a little wicked.

“Perhaps we should discuss some of them now?” she suggested naughtily. “In private.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the alcove with her.

He made a token protest, but, really, he was easily led.

Once they were inside, and away from prying eyes, she pulled him down for a kiss, relatively chaste given their location, but probably not as chaste as said location would have preferred.

“Thank you, Jack,” she whispered against his lips before pulling away. “I love it.”

“And I love you,” he told her, knowing without a doubt that he meant it. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

And he meant that too.

It had been a gift — and a surprising one at that — to have met a girl who shared so many of his interests. Gardening, books, the theatre.

Oh how Jack loved the theatre. 

As a boy growing up in Richmond, he hadn’t attended many performances, but he had had a library card and an impressive imagination, and together the two had sufficed. He didn’t really need more. But then one day, quite by accident, Rosie had stumbled upon him at the station reading Shakespeare on his break and, after a short conversation (which sadly did not form a shared sonnet, but which did make him laugh twice), had asked him to attend a reading with her.

It had been a revelation. 

_She_ had been a revelation.

He’d only known her to nod hello to before that, when she was visiting her father for one reason or another. But after hearing her laughter and her gasps and her murmurs of delight at the reading… he’d been halfway in love before intermission.

He was completely gone now.

Now they attended anything they could find — anything free or that he could afford anyway. They even took part, sometimes, if they could do it together.

That she was also beautiful and spirited and kind, that she shared his sense of humour and his sense of justice… That she encouraged him and made him smile all the time. 

It had been a gift, meeting her, and not one he would ever take for granted. 

She pulled him down to kiss him again, but this time — fighting all his instincts — he pulled back.

“Rosie,” he admonished, more out of a belief that he needed to at least _act_ proper than because he was actually feeling that way. “You don’t want to get us thrown out before the performance starts, do you?”

“Would that be _so_ terrible?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he laughed. “Now behave!”

She pouted very prettily and stroked the skin of his wrist under the cuff of his jacket sleeve. “Are you sure I can’t get you to misbehave instead?”

Jack stayed firm… though thoughts of firmness were not exactly his friend at the moment. “Not even if you ask nicely,” he said, his standard reply whenever she tried to sway him.

“But Jack, I can ask _very_ nicely,” she murmured, which was her standard reply to his, and to be honest it worked about 93% of the time.

Not tonight, though. Tonight he had plans. 

He tried to look as stern as possible, though she could almost certainly see his flush despite the dim lighting in the alcove. Thankfully, she decided to take pity on him anyway.

“Fine.” She threw him a cheeky smile. “You’re just lucky I love a farce.”

“I am indeed a very lucky man, Miss Sanderson.” He crooked his elbow, and she settled her hand on his bicep, and together they walked back into the lobby arm in arm.

A man could get used to that.

“You know,” she began in a tone that made it clear she was about to tease him, “we could have gone to an operetta instead.” Jack groaned and she laughed. “Well I thought you were marvelous, darling, that reviewer be hanged.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “You have to say that, you’re my — ” He stopped, quite suddenly, and she looked up at him, an expression of amusement on her beautiful face.

“What? What am I, Jack?” 

Jack shoved his free hand in his pocket to buy time, but she just patiently waited him out.

“My date,” he said finally, patting the ring box in his pocket nervously.

“Mmmmm,” she agreed, as they continued through the lobby. “And, as your date, I expect more of your time tonight; I have hours and hours of my birthday left, you know.”

“Yes,” he agreed, palming the box one last time. “Definitely. Perhaps a walk in the moonlight to start?”

“Oh, Jack, how romantic!”

_That’s the idea_ , he thought.

He had, in fact, lots of ideas. Had it all mapped out, actually

Marry Rosie, start a family, make sergeant, make inspector. Keep a garden, keep a home, keep her happy. 

Always happy.

No surprises, he thought as he showed her their seats. Just happiness.

A man could get used to that. 

In the dark, Jack smiled at the thought, and as the curtain rose, they settled in for the show.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**ACT TWO: 1926**

Jack rushed up the steps, not worried he'd be late, _exactly_ , but wanting to make sure that he wasn’t all the same; he’d not attended one of these in quite some time but etiquette was etiquette no matter the season.

He needn’t have fretted though; a quick glance at his watch once he was inside indicated he had time to spare. He sighed with relief, slowed his pace and made his way through the lobby. It was crowded already, and so he didn’t immediately notice the woman who immediately noticed him.

“Jack!”

She was surprised. Obviously. As was he. He stammered for a moment before remembering his manners. 

“Rosie! I… hello. I didn’t…”

He trailed off, unsure how to continue, and so they stared at each other silently in the middle of the throng, twin expressions of tongue-tied consternation on their faces. It was awkward and uncomfortable but at least it was _real_ , and so dammit all if Rosie didn’t promptly put on her mask and switch gears entirely — their separation was not public knowledge, and she was determined to keep it that way for as long as possible.

Speaking louder than was necessary, Rosie broke the silence. “Oh, yes dear, I’m so glad you could get away from the station in time to attend.” She leaned up to kiss his cheek and he nodded dumbly. Giving him a wide smile — he knew her well enough to see the strain at the edges, but a casual observer would only see a dutiful wife greeting her husband — she took his arm to lead him away from the crowd. “Come along, darling, I need a refreshment before the curtain.”

The act was so convincing and so confusing that he was in the small alcove before he even knew what had happened.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, mask gone in an instant now that they were away from prying eyes.

Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. He knew what she was doing, of course — their unexpected meeting had made her anxious and Rosie’s first instinct when she was anxious was generally to lash out. The trouble was no one seemed to make her more anxious these days than Jack himself.

“I’m — I’m sorry,” he began, not looking for a fight, “I saw what was playing and I didn’t…” He sighed. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

And he hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t. 

Their season tickets — the first indulgence they had allowed themselves when Jack had made Detective Inspector — were still delivered to the house they no longer shared and she hadn’t asked after them in ages anyway.

A small voice in his head unhelpfully suggested that she’d probably stopped asking him to go with her because his answer was always no. 

It had never occurred to him that after she left she would attend on her own.

He pulled out the ticket to show her — the “music by” credit clearly visible — and she nodded in understanding, her anger subsiding quickly.

In fairness, her anger usually subsided quickly, though, as Jack knew all too well from the war, a direct hit didn’t require time to be lethal.

“Of course,” she said quietly, and perhaps even a little fondly, though that could have been wishful thinking on his part. “I should have known you couldn’t resist a show with Cole Porter music _and_ cowboys.”

He shrugged a bit sheepishly as he returned the ticket to his coat, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “You?” he asked.

Rosie fiddled with her necklace. “Father recently became a season subscriber as well, though he rarely uses his tickets. I saw what was playing and I — well I should have checked with you first, I suppose.”

“No, no…” He sighed again, resigned. “Perhaps.”

They were silent then, too much to say to even know where to begin. 

“You know,” he offered finally, trying to keep them in friendly waters. “This,” he gestured to the alcove, “reminds me of the first time we were here.”

She nodded, but said nothing.

“And I, uh, I heard they adapted _Seven Days_ into a silent film.” He didn’t much care for the pictures, but he knew she did.

Rosie nodded. “Lillian Rich was in it. It was quite good.”

“Ah.”

Another silence.

“I’ve heard there’s quite a lot of ballet in the piece tonight,” he told her, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other.

“Yes, I believe there is,” she agreed.

“Too bad it’s not a farce,” he offered. “I know how you enjoy those.”

Rosie let go of her necklace and crossed her arms. “Yes, well, I’ve found a farce is only funny when it ends happily.”

The words must have come out more caustically than she’d meant them to, because she winced almost as soon as they left her lips, but Jack could not help his flinch as he heard them all the same.

Direct hit.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t…” She sighed and wrapped her arms around herself without thinking. Her voice, when she spoke, was uncharacteristically unsteady. “Why is this so hard?”

_If I knew the answer to that_ , Jack thought, _we might actually be together instead of just pretending that we are._

But he couldn’t say that to her. Couldn’t, in fact, say _anything_ to her these days — at least, anything that mattered — so he looked past her to read the sign in the lobby instead.

“Next month is _Hedda Gabler_ ,” he noted, more for something to fill the silence than any real interest. “We could… well if you wanted to see that...”

Rosie’s responding snort of laughter was so unexpected it actually startled him.

“Really, Jack? _We_ should attend _Hedda Gabler?_ That’s a little dark, don’t you think, even for us.”

When Jack caught up to her train of thought — yes, perhaps a play about an unhappy marriage and rather a lot of death was not the _most_ appropriate suggestion — he laughed so loudly he frightened an old woman walking past which only made Rosie laugh harder, and soon they were both giggling madly in the dimly lit alcove.

And suddenly it was like old times, when they would slip away at concerts and parties and dances to entertain themselves. Before they’d begun this new dance... the one where she pulled and he retreated and they somehow wound up further apart every time.

Her laughter finally subsiding, Rosie wiped a tear away from her eyes with the back of her hand. Jack reached into his jacket to offer her a handkerchief, but she just shook her head.

“We need to figure this out,” she said and Jack stared at her. Surely, she didn’t mean… “The tickets,” she clarified. “So we can avoid any future… awkwardness.”

“Shared custody?” Jack suggested wryly and to his surprise she tilted her head in genuine consideration of the idea.

“We could divide up the productions by surname of the author,” she suggested. “I’ll take A - M, and you can have N - Z.”

Jack smiled at her. “You gave me Shakespeare.”

“Of course, Jack, I’m not a monster.”

Then he raised an eyebrow. “And kept Noël Coward for yourself.”

Rosie shrugged. “Well I’m not a saint, either.”

And for the second time that night, Jack laughed.

He missed laughing. 

He missed...

He reached out to catch her hand in his. “I miss you,” he confessed quietly.

She looked down at their hands, fingers entwined, and her lower lip trembled. “I miss you too,” she whispered, before looking up to meet his eye. “The trouble is… the trouble is I’ve been missing you since 1914, Jack. And I know that’s not fair, but…”

She didn’t continue, but she didn't let go of his hand, either.

And suddenly he could see a different evening altogether unfolding.

He could suggest they watch the performance together. Have a drink after. Come home with him.

Just for the night.

It would be so easy to... it wouldn’t change anything in the end, they’d been dancing this new dance long enough for him to know that, but selfishly he wanted just one more night with her.

“I should go,” she said quietly. She started to turn, but he pulled her back gently by their still joined hands.

“Rosie, wait.”

She did, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. 

“Yes?”

He started to respond, but as she looked up at him something akin to hope flashed in her eyes and it stopped him from uttering whatever it was he’d been about to say; he’d seen that hope flare up before — burn bright and warm for a day, a week, a month — only to die so many times over the years, and the disappointment was always worse for the hope that came before it.

And the truth — the horrible, hated, simple truth — was he already knew how this would play out.

So, selfish as he wanted to be, he would not cause more disappointment than he already had.

Jack let go of her hand.

“Enjoy the performance.”

The hope flickered out, as it always did eventually, but, as it had never truly caught fire this time, he prayed she wouldn’t notice its absence as acutely.

She nodded, then turned to leave.

“Goodnight, Jack.”

She didn’t look back as she said it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**ACT THREE: 1931**

Jack leaned back against the alcove wall, waiting for Phryne’s return. He probably should have offered to get the drinks himself, but she had been gone before he could protest and, frankly, it had been a long week and he wasn’t going to look a gift whisky in the mouth.

He closed his eyes, felt the cool marble behind his head, and began to relax for the first time in days.

Which is when he felt another person enter the small space.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered fondly before opening his eyes.

The startled eyes of Rosie Sanderson stared back at him.

Jack practically leapt off the wall.

“Rosie!” 

His mouth was open, he knew, and she was doing a fairly decent impression of a fish herself, but eventually they both remembered their manners and shook off the shock.

“I didn’t realise — ”

“I wasn’t aware — ”

They both stopped. Smiled awkwardly. He nodded to indicate she should go first.

“I wasn’t aware you still attended,” she said. 

“I didn’t,” he admitted. “For a while, anyway.” 

And he hadn’t. 

Not while their marriage was ending, not in the immediate aftermath. His schedule had been too busy, the memories too painful in light of what came after. But, eventually, there’d been something he just hadn’t wanted to miss, and so he’d returned. It had been… nice, to feel so interested, so passionate about this particular activity again. And so he’d come back, once, twice, a third time. He’d started attending alone at first, then with friends, and eventually he’d made new memories.

New memories that tempered the old, and let him appreciate them for what they were. What they had meant at the time.

And that had been nice too.

“But I do now,” he said simply. “Though I… I didn’t realize you were back in town.”

“Yes.” She fiddled with her necklace. “A few months ago I finally managed to wrest full control of Father’s finances — it took ages as you know — but I was finding it too difficult to manage them from Sydney. I came back to oversee everything personally.”

“Yes, I heard about that. What you’re doing with the funds… it’s wonderful, Rosie, really. You’re helping a lot of young women.”

He didn’t say how he’d heard, but Rosie surely suspected. And then, as though summoned by the mere thought, the source of his information appeared.

“I’m back, darli — oof!”

Holding two glasses of whisky, she wafted into the small space on a cloud of perfume that collided with him rather suddenly because said small space was not designed for three people.

“What the — oh, Miss Sanderson!” Phryne’s eyes flitted between Jack and Rosie for a second before a genuine smile lit up her face. “How lovely to see you.”

Rosie, for her part, had clearly just realized that he’d been waiting for Phryne to return to the alcove and was looking quite intently in his direction. Jack resisted the urge to squirm under her assessing gaze. He had nothing to be ashamed of, after all; yes he’d been in the small space with Phryne, but they hadn’t been doing anything inappropriate.

Inappropriate _adjacent_ perhaps, but that was hardly the same thing.

Phryne looked between them once more before clearly making a decision. She shoved one of the glasses into Jack’s hand — “neat, as requested, Jack, just like you” — and the other into Rosie’s before turning to leave again.

“Oh, I — ”

Rosie started to protest, but Phryne wasn’t hearing any of it. From just outside the alcove she shook her head.

“Nonsense. I was looking for a reason to return to my conversation with Gertrude anyway. You two catch up and I’ll see you at curtain, Jack.”

Then she was gone again.

Rosie raised an eyebrow and, after looking at it for a long moment, tentatively took a sip of her drink.

Jack downed half the glass.

Rosie tapped the tumbler with her nail and sighed. “Perhaps I should go.”

He looked at her in surprise. “What? Why?”

“Because… I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Because theatres have ghosts, and I am starting to feel like one myself.”

“Because of Phryne?”

Rosie shook her head sadly, and gestured between them. “Because of… this. Because I still don’t know how to be with you, and… and certainly not how to be _here_ with you.”

“Well… you could start by catching up with your whisky,” he suggested, indicating how low his glass was, and she chuckled.

“Not your worst idea,” she conceded, taking a rather large swig.

He was quiet for a moment after that; the truth was he didn’t quite know how to act around her, either. But he knew he wanted to _try_ and so he looked for a way to keep the conversation going.

“Are the tickets…”

He realized, after he started speaking, that he didn’t quite know what he was actually asking — he couldn’t imagine she’d accept anything from her father these days — but she seemed to understand; she shook her head again.

“No, no these were a birthday present from Louise. She thought the title sounded like something I’d like.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “ _Death Takes a Holiday_? That’s a little dark, even for your sister.”

Rosie chuckled softly. “Yes, I suppose it is. Quite right for you and Miss Fisher, though,” she said.

Jack snorted and then shook his head.

“No, with her it would be more like _Miss Fisher and Death Take a Holiday Together and the Long Suffering Inspector Takes His Headache Powders_.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the title needs work.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed with a smile — genuine, if small, for which he was pleased. “And it is nice to see you so happy, even if in need of headache powders so often.” She looked out at the lobby, a wistful sort of expression on her face. “You must love her very much.”

Despite the warmth of the theatre and the burn of the whisky, Jack suddenly felt very cold. He blinked, once, before trying to speak — he didn’t know exactly what to say but he was rather desperate to disabuse her of any false notions.

His voice, when he found it, was rough.

“Rosie, you know I — ”

She turned back and silenced him by placing her hand over his heart. There were tears in her eyes, but she wasn’t letting them fall; Rosie almost never let them fall.

“I know, Jack,” she assured him quietly. “I always knew that. Even... even at the end, I never doubted _that_.” She swallowed. “I hope you never doubted me?”

He shook his head. No, he’d never doubted.

It just hadn’t been enough.

“Join us for the play,” he blurted out rather suddenly, before he even realized what he was saying. Once he did, though… once he did, he rather loved the idea.

She looked up in surprise.

“Phryne has a box,” he explained. “There’s an extra seat.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea…” She removed her hand from his chest and worried her necklace again. “Three’s a crowd, Jack.”

“Three’s a number, Rosie,” he reminded her dryly, before softening his tone. “If you’re uncomfortable or would prefer not to, I completely understand. But please know the offer is genuine.”

She looked uncertain, and frowned minutely. “I don’t need your pity, Jack. Or your protection.”

“Of course you don’t. Though, if you ever _wanted_ the latter, you’d have it in a heartbeat.”

“Not the former?” she asked with a wry smile.

“Not even if you ask nicely,” he teased, hoping enough years had passed to make it an inside joke instead of a painful memory. From the way she rolled her eyes at him and smiled, they had.

“Then why?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Because... because I _liked_ attending the theatre with you, Rosie. And I miss it.”

_I miss you_ , he thought. Not their marriage, which over the years had somehow made them incapable of not hurting each other as husband and wife. But her. The person who’d first encouraged his love of theatre. The friend he’d shared laughter with for half his life. The woman he would care for always.

“I miss it too,” she said softly. 

“Then stay,” he said. “See the play with us. I believe you and I still have shared custody of this theatre, after all.”

“And what about Miss Fisher?”

“Well we can share custody of her, too.” 

Rosie, mid-sip, almost spit out her whisky at that and snorted so loudly it startled a gentleman walking past. Jack hid his chuckle behind his glass and continued. “Honestly, it would be a relief to at least have a _witness_ to some of the trouble she attracts; no one seems to believe me.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure it’s all her,” Rosie countered dryly. “You never got into _any_ trouble before she arrived.”

It was a fair accusation — and almost certainly true — but he suspected she was also stalling as she considered his offer. He stayed quiet to give her the time. Finally, she shook her head and opened her mouth to say something. Closed it. Opened it again. “You really don’t think she’d mind?”

“I think she’d be delighted,” Jack assured her truthfully. “Miss Fisher has great affection for strong women. And, though I hate to admit it, I think the potential opportunity for you two eventually teaming up on me will appeal to her immensely.”

“I have to admit, I find the idea appealing myself,” she admitted and he rolled his eyes.

“Heaven help me,” he muttered with exaggerated exasperation before meeting his former wife’s eyes once more.

Something changed in her expression, then, relaxed and readjusted and just… clicked, like the tumblers of a lock falling into place. And in that moment Jack was quite suddenly reminded of something from their shared past, something from their very first time in this theatre, in fact. But it was not a memory of the girl she’d once been. Instead, he was reminded of the future he’d wanted for her. 

He’d wanted her to be happy. 

And right now… right now she looked happy.

At the realization, Jack felt a new warmth blossom in his chest that had nothing to do with the heat of the theatre or the alcohol. He swallowed a lump in his throat with the last of his whisky, and smiled.

Unaware of his myriad thoughts and revelations, Rosie knocked back the last of her drink and shoved the empty glass into his hand, which he added to his own on the sideboard. Then she adjusted her shawl and held out her palm, and Jack immediately offered his arm.

“Alright, Jack,” she said, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “Sneak us in.”

Raising his eyebrows and tilting his head, Jack gave her an incredulous look. “You do realize we have tickets, right?”

She shrugged. “Yes, but it’s still more fun this way.”

Jack chuckled, then proceeded to take them through back halls and dim passages and the absolutely most convoluted route he could think of to join Phryne because, yes, theatres had ghosts, but sometimes… sometimes things were not so dead as they seemed. Sometimes they were just transformed.

And with all their shared history, it had never occurred to him that he and Rosie might still have a shared future, even if that future looked very different from the one he’d imagined all those years ago. 

How nice, to still be surprised by life.

A man could get used to that. 

In the dark, Jack smiled at the thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical note: while The Princess was and is indeed a grand theatre in Melbourne, and all the shows mentioned in this fic are time period appropriate, I've no idea if they played there during the dates listed, and I refuse to look up what did so I can continue to live in blissful ignorance.
> 
> Join me, won't you? 😂


End file.
